


Cunning Like a Foxhound

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, Gen, I'm Sorry, M/M, Madeleine Era, Really Bad Crossdressing, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way home after an afternoon of breaking and entering to leave money, Valjean crosses paths with Javert in the most improbable disguise of all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cunning Like a Foxhound

It was a small miracle, Jean Valjean couldn't help thinking as he admired the buttercups and daisies growing by the side of the street. Somehow, those wilting yellow and white flowers had survived all the way to autumn despite an entire summer's worth of Montreuil-sur-mer's traffic passing right by them, still beautiful despite their greatest bloom having long since passed.  
  
He allowed himself a quiet moment gazing at the plants, just as he had allowed himself to enjoy the sunset moments before. Then, he straightened up and headed back towards his residence, hands occasionally slipping into pockets that had been filled with gold and silver when he left the mairie, now free of their burden.  
  
Women of the town already stalked the shadows, surveying their surroundings for potential customers; some with bold gazes, many others with downcast eyes. Valjean felt a pang in his chest at the sight of the miserable lot. Surely the fate of these poor women was not God's will, their moral misgivings notwithstanding.  
  
His eyes fell on an unusually tall figure wearing a red dress and leaning into a wall, partially obscured by shadows and standing apart from the other prostitutes with folded arms.  
  
Valjean blinked slowly as recognition set in. It couldn't be. The mere thought was absolutely preposterous. And yet, there was no mistaking the imposing, shadowy man, despite the striking difference in apparel and unusual surroundings.  
  
Then, the gaze that had scrutinizing a nearby alley right with peculiar intensity turned towards him.  
  
Valjean swallowed, unconsciously touching his left wrist. There was no mistaking the eyes clapped on him. Now, only one question remained: which would be more suspicious, approaching the man or rushing back home as quickly as possible?  
  
Valjean found himself moving towards the figure almost against his own will, his feet dragging him forward even as his mind told him he was walking straight into the maw of a terrifying beast. Still, wouldn't it be even more suspicious if he ignored what he had seen and wouldn't even pause to question it?  
  
As he approached, what had still felt like an illusion became a certainty.  
  
"Javert?" he heard himself ask, accounting the unexpected hoarseness in his voice to surprise.  
  
Javert, on his part, shuddered at his voice and pulled the grey shawl around his shoulders closer to his body. It did nothing to hide his sartorial state; the threadbare fabric of the shawl only grew more translucent from the stretch.  
  
"Monsieur le maire," he replied stiffly, gaze resting somewhere in the vicinity of Valjean's eyes, but not meeting them. "It is rather late for you to be wandering in this district."  
  
"Yes." Valjean took the few remaining steps that separated him from the shadow of the building, unable to remove his eyes from Javert. Javert turned to face him, arms folded tightly with hands clenching the edges of his shawl, his face closed off. "I was...occupied longer than I expected."  
  
"I see." Suspicion flashed in Javert's eyes, quickly masked by a veil of politeness.   
  
"Indeed." Well, this answered the question whether interacting with Javert could somehow make him even more uncomfortable than it usually did. Valjean attempted to keep his gaze on the tips of his boots, but it constantly escaped and returned to Javert time and time again. The silken dress clung tightly to his body, barely stretching over his shoulders, leaving his neck and shoulder blades entirely exposed. The grey shroud provided little in the way of modesty, leaving his arms almost completely bare. As Madeleine's eyes trailed further down, the already sorry sight only became more alarming. Granted, the dress fit over Javert's body better than Valjean might have expected — not that he had ever expected to witness something like this — but its hem ended somewhere at the proximity of Javert's knees, revealing a few centimetres of a slightly longer petticoat, and beneath that Javert's usual heavyset boots. On his head was a knit cap roughly the same shade of grey as his eyes, which rather than improve what Madeleine could only assume was a disguise only emphasised Javert's rough countenance.  
  
Somehow, the usually formidable hunting-dog, despite the sheer ridiculousness of his get-up, still managed to exude a certain aura of intimidation. Once the initial embarrassment had passed, he looked back at Valjean with certainty, with almost enough steel to make it a challenge.  
  
Valjean cleared his throat. He wondered how acceptable would it be for him to simply to turn around and leave without another word. He certainly couldn't afford to arouse any further suspicion in Javert than he already did, but remaining where he was could only end in disaster. Valjean was not a man for jests, but even so he could feel laughter clawing up his throat. He had managed to suffocate it for now, but what would the man think if his composure gave way?  
  
Finally, curiosity compelled him to ask one question, which while prolonging the conversation would perhaps offer him an honourable way out of the situation before the queer feeling circling his mind took over. "Javert, while I do not doubt that you have good reason for this," Javert shifted, turning ever so slightly away, "but why are you dressed as you are?"  
  
Javert cleared his throat. "This is how it is, Monsieur le maire. I have on good authority that one of the sailors arriving in Montreuil tonight is an infamous mugger who slipped from the authorities in Marseilles last month."  
  
"And that is why you're here?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur. The scoundrel is notoriously good at slipping into the crowd: he was tried and sentenced once, but has roamed free since his release, back to his old tricks. He has only one distinguishing feature, a tattoo of a blue rooster on his chest. But while nothing about his features betrays the criminal intent lurking within him, his proclivities are well known to the police. He will certainly roam the alleys tonight, looking for—" Javert wrinkled his nose, "companionship, I suppose. Companionship that might double as his next victim."   
  
"And you are here to keep an eye on things?"  
  
"More than that, with any luck. I have received a warrant for his arrest, and as soon as I'm able to find evidence of his identity," he left the sentence unfinished, and instead nudged the cane jutting from underneath his elbow. His brow furrowed. "Still, he is a slippery customer. He has the eyes of a cat and reflexes to match. So I'm told. Normal methods haven't worked so far, so I chose to try a more," he averted his eyes, "direct approach."  
  
"I see," Valjean said, despite not really seeing anything, his eyes carefully fixed in the vicinity of Javert's ear. Javert's zeal, while terrifying, had a certain reassuring quality when targeted at those who threatened the innocent. Still, Valjean couldn't help but feel that his sense of duty, while beneficial in this instance, was perhaps misdirected in another way entirely. "Shouldn't the soldiers help you with this task?"  
  
"I had two stationed close to the docks, and another one patrolling this area." Javert quirked an eyebrow when Madeleine opened his mouth again, yet couldn't ask the next question. "The town will be safe."  
  
"Very good," Valjean said weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was ridiculous.   
  
Now, Valjean would never question Javert's dedication to his post. He performed even the most tedious tasks that were a part of his function with equal attention, skill, and tenacity, and not once could Valjean slight him for lack of competence. Surely even now he believed he was doing all he could to bring the elusive ruffian to heel, and for the sake of the well-being of the people of the town, Valjean respected his diligence.  
  
Even so, there was no denying that his current disguise was the least convincing thing Valjean had ever witnessed. One look at his face would be enough to alert anyone, but that was hardly the only problem with the disguise. Wouldn't the mugger notice him immediately, and move his prowl to another part of the town?  
  
"Javert," he began slowly, "I do not mean to question the way you perform your duties, I have faith in your abilities. Still, I must say..."  
  
Javert straightened his posture. "Yes, Monsieur le maire?"  
  
"I am not entirely sure of the effectiveness of this disguise." The words felt like lead when they dropped from his lips, but the only reaction they elicited from Javert was a quirk of an eyebrow. "You have shown excellent, ah, zeal in adopting this role, but perhaps one of the soldiers would have been more suited to the task?"  
  
"I considered that, monsieur, but came to the decision it was for the best I did it myself."  
  
"Ah." Valjean didn't know how to continue. "Yes, well...but, Javert," he dared himself to meet the inspector's eyes and was met with unexpected calmness. "you are, I presume, your height...you must be at least one metre eighty," he finished feebly.  
  
"You are correct," Javert replied, frowning slightly.  
  
"Yes, precisely. You must admit that is a very unusual height for a woman."   
  
"Unusual, perhaps, but plausible. There are woman of this height."  
  
"Yes, very well," Valjean conceded. His eyes hovered across Javert's face. "But there is also the matter of..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Valjean bit his tongue. It was also true that there were women with noses like the inspector's, noses that looked like they had once collided painfully with a sturdy brick wall. There were women with thin, taut lips that seemed always slightly more affected by gravity than the rest of the world. There were women with piercing gazes that were so cold they burned. Yet it was equally true that none of the features around that imposing jawline, least of all the flagrantly displayed Adam's apple, invoked in mind the word "femininity". He wondered if there was any way to bring the matter up without insulting the man. In the end, he let sleeping dogs lie and instead allowed his eyes trail down one of Javert's bare arms, with its slight, but firm muscles, and dark, soft hairs.   
  
"Your arms..." he muttered.  
  
Javert touched his elbow. "Are they too blatant? I thought of covering them, but this blasted shroud is all but useless."  
  
"It cannot be helped, I suppose," Valjean mumbled, not really paying attention, his eyes transfixed on the way the muscles of Javert's upper arm rippled beneath the translucent fabric as he raised his elbow higher. Like hypnotised, his eyes made their way towards the right and now rested on Javert's upper body. Javert was only a step or two from being described as "gaunt", but Valjean found unexpected pleasure at following the lines of his body barely concealed by silk. The muscles, thought slight, were sleek and firm, almost as if chiselled from granite.   
  
One thing was certain: there was absolutely no way any part of the angular body in front of him could be mistaken as belonging to a woman. Around the hips, maybe, if one allowed one's imagination to wander, but the broad, flat chest left little room for imagination, especially when taking into account the tufts of dark hair peeking from the décolletage.  
  
"Anything else, monsieur?" Valjean noticed belatedly that he had been staring at Javert's prominent collarbones and exposed neck for far too long. He hastily tore his gaze towards the ground, and has met once again with worn, but well kept leather boots peeking from under a hem of a petticoat that only reached Javert to mid-calf.   
  
"Javert," he said, "you are aware that your boots are clearly visible, are you not?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur." For the first time since Valjean had begun his protest, Javert sounded ill at ease. "I couldn't find a dress long enough in time, and had no material to make adjustments. Perhaps I could have gone barefoot, but there is a chance I will have to run the criminal down."  
  
"Quite." Valjean felt blood rising to his cheeks. Without asking for his permission, his mind had decided to exhibit him surprisingly lifelike illustrations of what Javert's legs looked like without the boots. They were bound to be long, given his height, and considering the hours he spent on foot muscular as well. It was all for the better he wore boots, really: if he didn't, Valjean suspected he would have had even more difficulty focusing than he already had.   
  
"Monsieur le maire?"   
  
A healthy dose of reality penetrated through Valjean's skull and made his stomach lurch. What was he doing? Why was this so difficult, for crying out loud? He had seen bare skin countless times before, and this was Javert, for heaven's sake, the last person he should let his eyes linger on. Nor had he ever been tempted before. Then why, of all times and places, were his thoughts so muddled now?  
  
It occurred to Valjean that he had at some point sought purchase from a nearby wall.  
  
"Could you," he asked, nervously licking his lips, despairing for words that wouldn't seem out of place, "could you have at least done something about your whiskers?"  
  
Javert's hand instinctively rose to his cheek and onto the enormous side whiskers there. "But monsieur, they are integral for performing my duty."  
  
"They are?"  
  
Javert bristled at the question. "Of course. It is important to maintain a proper image, even in a relatively peaceful town such as this one."  
  
Valjean opened his mouth to point out maintaining a proper image, sideburns or no sideburns, might be somewhat tricky after this particular episode, but changed his mind. What point was there to pursuing this any further? He'd have a better chance making his case to a brick wall, and every moment he spent in Javert's presence when he was dressed like this risked rekindling his previous worrying thoughts.  
  
"Monsieur?"  
  
Valjean looked up at Javert's knitted brow. "Yes, Javert?"  
  
"I understand you may have some qualms about what I am doing here. However, you must understand all of this is for a reason."  
  
"Yes, yes. Quite." Valjean avoided Javert's eyes and unconsciously shifted his balance from one leg to another.  
  
"I am serious about catching this criminal," Javert continued, either ignoring or misunderstanding Valjean's attempt at terminating the discussion. "I have thought this through. The plan will work. Trust me."  
  
Valjean gazed into the fervent eyes and repressed a shudder. Such firm conviction, and as suspicious Valjean was of his method's chances, he couldn't help but offer a shred of admiration for such bizarre dedication.   
  
"I trust you," he replied quietly. It wasn't necessarily a lie, provided he could add some qualifying statements to it.  
  
Javert seemed to take his admission seriously, anyhow, for he bowed his head. "Thank you, monsieur. I will not disappoint you."  
  
"I'm sure you won't," said Valjean, more to himself than to Javert. He should leave. He had satisfied his curiosity, and received far more than he had bargained for. Here was a perfect escape.  
  
A thought, a ridiculous notion, crossed his mind. Nothing he could say or do would improve Javert's disguise enough to be even remotely passable, even in the shadows, but even so he felt that something was missing from the ensemble.  
  
"I will return shortly."  
  
He turned on his heels and retraced his step. Soon enough, he found the spot with the flowers, and selected the biggest daisy of the lot. Glancing around, he picked the flower with as much of the stem left as possible, then hurried back with his head bent low.  
  
"Here," he muttered, resisting the urge to shove the plant straight into Javert's hand and flee, instead barely thrusting it forward. "Some of the women of the town sometimes wear these in their hair. Perhaps..."  
  
Javert bestowed upon the flower a glance that was part suspicion, part venom, and Madeleine half expected the poor thing to wilt from the sheer intensity of the gaze. Still, Javert raised his hand from his shawl and took hold of the stem, his fingers brushing Madeleine's. Madeleine let go, and Javert raised the flower to his eye level, mutely scrutinising it, then tucked it behind it his ear.  
  
"Good thinking, monsieur," he said once the flower was in place. "This may well improve my chances."  
  
"Yes, well," Valjean mumbled feebly, giving Javert one last once-over. The flower, if possible, only made matters worse, underlining the sheer absurdity of the disguise. Javert seemed pleased enough with it, however, adjusting the daisy with an expression which almost resembled a smile. "I'll leave you to it, then. Best of luck with your hunt."  
  
"Thank you, Monsieur." Javert's already withdrawn expression closed off entirely, save for his still lingering gaze. Valjean did his best to hurry away without appearing to rush.   
  


* * *

  
"These are for you, Monsieur le maire," said Potin, a young, pock-marked soldier from the local garrison, as he laid down a small stack of papers on Valjean's desk.   
  
"Thank you, Potin," Valjean leaned over to glance at the top-most paper. Potin stood at attention, hands behind his back, but his expression didn't match his posture: his eyes shone, and his face twitched as if he could barely stop himself from breaking into a smile. "Is everything all right?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur, absolutely," and now, a weak smile did indeed crack through the stony expression. His eye twitched when he noticed Valjean's stare. "Pardon me, monsieur. It is simply such a wonderful day today I cannot contain myself."  
  
"I understand." The weather was indeed lovely for September. Still, while he couldn't claim to know Potin well, he hadn't expected him to be the type to burst into song at the sight of blue sky. "I trust all is well with the town?"  
  
"Without a shred of doubt, monsieur. The safety of all residents is guaranteed." Here, Potin once again broke into a grin. "Inspector Javert has personally taken great steps towards security last night." He lowered his voice. "He's quite pleased with himself, too. I've never seen him smile before." His brow furrowed. "Quite terrifying if you don't mind me saying so, monsieur."  
  
Valjean bypassed the unwarranted — though admittedly accurate — comment regarding Javert's rare grins almost immediately as an epiphany dawned on him. "You mean to say he caught his criminal?"  
  
"You know about it, then, monsieur?" Potin sounded genuinely surprised.  
  
Valjean raised one of the papers slightly from the desk to peruse it more carefully. At least, that had been his plan, but he could make nothing of the letters as his mind reeled. "I had the, ah, pleasure, of discussing his plans with him the previous night. I take everything went as planned?" He hadn't meant to ask the question: it had formed all by itself and escaped into the air before he could stop it.  
  
"Yes, monsieur. I should know, I was patrolling the area that night."  
  
"Ah."   
  
As Valjean warred with himself whether to ask for more details, Potin mercifully continued, stroking his clean-shaven chin, with an expression more suited to a table at a tavern than the mayor's office: "It was the strangest thing, monsieur. I noticed the fellow when he walked across the street, sure enough, but only because I was keeping an eye out for anyone who matched the description. Had my work cut out for me, there. Brown hair, brown eyes, strong arms — half of the sailors alone match that description. Anyway, he did match, so I kept my eyes peeled, especially when he started gazing at the, ahem, ladies."  
  
"I see."   
  
"I was close to where the inspector was on lookout, and well...with all due respect to Monsieur l'inspecteur," he covertly looked around as if he was half expecting Javert to pop up right behind him the moment he spoke again, then leaned in with a conspiratorial look, "I thought he was cock-eyed when I saw him in his get-up. I mean," he waved his arm, "even if you were at sea for six months straight and went blind from counterfeit rum, you still wouldn't mistake him for a woman, no matter how flashy his dress. But sure enough, as soon as the fellow saw him, he took interest and walked straight to him."  
  
"Really?" Valjean felt light-headed.   
  
"Straight to him. I swear it to you, monsieur. Kept my eye on them as began talking — and I thought the game was up for sure, no woman has a voice that deep — and the man's smile only widened. He said she liked his girls with a little more spunk and wanting to test his mettle, but the rest was too quiet for me to hear. They walked away, and four minutes later they walked back with the fellow in irons and that was that. He's in custody now, waiting to be transported."  
  
"Good," Valjean muttered absent-mindedly. "I'm glad the matter was resolved."  
  
"Yes, monsieur." Potin blinked slowly, then snapped back to attention, a faint blush spreading over his face. "Please pardon my indiscretion, monsieur. I didn't mean to gossip." He punctuated the statement with a stiff salute.  
  
Valjean fixed a benevolent smile on his face. "It is all right."  
  
"Thank you, monsieur. I must return now, regardless. Good day to you."  
  
"Good day." Valjean barely heard his own words or Potin's hurried footsteps. As soon as the soldier was gone, he raised his hands to his temples.   
  
If he hadn't known better, he would have assumed the whole incident was some kind of a set-up machinated by Javert in some bizarre attempt to unmask him. If that wasn't the case, however, and all Javert and Potin had told him was true, what on earth had happened? Jokes aside, Potin had been right: there was no way, not even the slightest possibility, that anyone alive could mistake Javert in a dress for a woman. Why would anyone, under any circumstances, approach him out of all those roaming the alleys?  
  
Unless...  
  
Ah.  
  
Valjean sighed and rubbed at his wrists, sombrely eyeing the empty fireplace. There was certain relief in knowing we wasn't alone with his — how had Javert put it? — proclivities.  
  
It would have been a greater relief if the man who shared his vice hadn't also been an ex-convict.


End file.
